


Beneath the Waves

by M4R4N14MH, Varjo



Series: For All Time and Space [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Shapeshifting Freeform, Author shamelessly appropriating another's work, Dagon had a sense of humour before she fell, Diving, F/F, Marine Flora and Fauna, Michael has no idea how to feeling, Raphael is Crowley, Raphael is a Little Shit, Reminiscing, Shapeshifting, Swimming, Talking, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but she tries, is that enough tags, make that FLUFF, reconnecting, violence against flowers, weakened Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M4R4N14MH/pseuds/M4R4N14MH, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varjo/pseuds/Varjo
Summary: Or: Just Don't Let Them Watch 'The Shape Of Water.' Seriously, you'll regret it. There will be tears.This will make absolutely no sense to you if you haven't read 'The Time Before' by M4R4N14MH; go there and read it. It's an amazing ride, I assure you.After the calamitous effects of the battle of the Tower, the angels and demons are secreted away in the Sanctuary. Wounds are mending, recoveries are made, conversations are being had and relationships are (re)instated, also crossing the domain borders.That is, they are for most. But what keeps the Archangel Michael and  the demon lord Dagon from reconnecting?
Relationships: Dagon/Michael (Good Omens)
Series: For All Time and Space [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957642
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Time Before](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251690) by [M4R4N14MH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M4R4N14MH/pseuds/M4R4N14MH). 



Wrath and Michael, much to Dagon’s chagrin, had clicked together instantly, as if the last few millennia had been some fever dream. As if the Primordial had never left.

She, finally free of her brother’s imprisonment, had been a regular visitor to the pale Archangel’s bedside. Spending hours with the her just talking, reminiscing about old sparring matches and swapping details of the battle at Babel. The talks had both been a distraction and a motivator; they had certainly motivated Michael into healing faster. Or, realistically, getting out of bed far sooner than she was meant to.

As soon as the Archangel had grown strong enough to stand and wield a blade and the Primordial had readjusted to having a corporeal body of her own, they retired to what counted as the Sanctuary’s own training room and started with endurance training and some light sparring.

“Mustn’t go easy on myself,” Michael had curtly rebuffed as Wisdom had emphatically protested his sister’s and the Archangel’s behaviour, crankily pointing out that, in his opinion, the angel should still be confined to bed, “I mustn’t let myself get rusty. Fighting is fitness and muscle memory. I could lose all of it if I lounge around in bed for years on end.”

Wrath had cast what amounted to an apologetic look from her over her shoulder, but Wisdom, standing there with tattoed arms crossed and pale brow furrowed, made no move to stop them as they walked away.

The training room was as close to the one Michael remembered from Heaven as it could get. The walls were a clean, sterile white, the dummies as well-stitched as ever, and the multitude of weapons were all still razor-sharp. But the sense of familiarity was nothing compared to how _freeing_ it felt to be back on her feet, back in control.

Michael sparred with dedication and energy, her enthusiasm plain, but her movements were far slower and weaker than Wrath remembered them to be—which wasn’t all that surprising, given the stresses of the recent battles she had undergone. Still, the Archangel swung the blade as if it were just an extension of her body; precise and delicate when finesse was needed, brutal and inescapable when the opportunity presented itself. Her feet were quick, her blows meticulous and deadly, her twists and turns elegant, her lunges graceful and mighty; but her eyes and the expressionlessness of her unusually gaunt face spoke of fatigue and strain.

And far too much determination, subdued anger, and restlessness than was good for her.

Michael fought brutally but she was combatting herself as much as her opponent.

Then finally, just as the fight threatened to wear on for even longer, the Archangel mistepped, tripped, and almost fell over. The moment she paused, the façade of poise and power fell away. Even the strain of standing had the Archangel coughing and spitting, a hand pressed tight to her quivering side. Wrath sighed and sheathed her training sword.

“You can’t go on,” she said, after a moment, “Just look at yourself, Michael. You’ve had enough.”

Michael promptly—as was expected—shook her head and forced herself to stand upright. Did she assume Wrath didn’t notice the tremor in her physique, that she was blind as to how the Archangel's very soul quivered at the strain?

“I’m not tired,” she lied, and Wrath’s eyebrow twitched upward. The Archangel’s voice was thin and brittle, and yet she sounded every inch the soldier, “I’m not weak. We’re not even a quarter through an average training day. Come here and engage me.”

Wrath felt disgruntled at being opposed, and it showed, the air around her slowly beginning to simmer with heat, “No. Sit down, Michael, and take a breath. You pushing yourself to death will achieve nothing.”

“You do not command me!” Streaks of anger bristled through Michael’s mind, face, and aura, even working through her pronounced pallor by some unfortunate miracle, “ _Nobody_ gets to tell me what to do. If I say I can fight, _I_ _can fight_. And I need this exercise; I will grow even weaker if-”

Wrath sighed and, with a grunt of effort, pushed down the ever-simmering anger in her soul, “Michael?”

The Archangel, predictably, bristled like an irate cat, _“What?”_

Wrath tried again, the anger bubbling just a hair closer to the surface, “Michael, can you hear me?”

“ _Of course_ I can hear you! Do you think I’m deaf as well as weak?”

Wrath extended a vaguely indicating hand. “Phone.”

Michael scoffed, but she obeyed, producing her phone and unlocking it after a few taps. The moment she did, the device began emitting a soft, hummed melody, and Michael, just standing there and listening, closed her eyes and _breathed_.

After her calamitous fit of rage in the Ether that had resulted in her being frozen by Eros, and after hearing how claustrophobic and downright dehumanising (deangelising?) the whole ordeal had felt to the Archangel, the Primordials had agreed that the use of the subliminal instructions was, at best, a terrible idea and that its use would be banned, in respect both for Michael’s body and free will. By way of replacement, since both Michael and Wrath had conceded that ways and means of stopping their rampages were direly needed, Temperance had volunteered to let all Archangels and Primordials record her humming an ancient lullaby with their phones1. It had side effects, sure, as most listeners admitted to bouts of tearful nostalgia or a feeling of being reverted to their childhood (or whatever could really be counted as a childhood), but the desired sedative effect was definitely there.

Michael sighed deeply as the melody ended, then put her phone away and ruffled her long and still-rather-unkempt hair.

“Fine,” she muttered after a long moment, “I’m fine. I... suppose I needed that.”

Wrath nodded from where she stood by Michael's side, having sidled there during the lullaby.

“Then let’s sit down,” she said, indicating an empty side of the hall, audibly still under the soothing influence of her sister’s singing herself, “And catch our breath a little.”

Michael obeyed wordlessly. Once seated, she continued to ignore Wrath, and instead stared at the hilt of the training broadsword which she listlessly turned about in her hands.

“What’s eating you?” the Primordial finally asked, the human phrase sounding utterly ridiculous coming from a being so ancient.

Michael snorted, her shoulders hunching a little, but she gave no other response.

“Tell me,” Wrath asked again, her determination to remain calm clearly wavering; the after-effects of the lullaby most probably the only reason that determination still stood, “I’m sat here caring about you, making an _effort_ to care about you, and I won’t have you disrespect this. I asked you a question, and I request an answer, if need be I _will_ squeeze it out of you.”

Michael, recognising a hopeless situation when she saw it, finally made a cagey attempt at explaining, “… what’s going to happen now? What will we… what will I be to the Universe? To myself? To anyone, really? I was Created to be the Commander of the celestial armed forces, but there’s no Heaven anymore. I am General of _nothing_. I am nothing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t necessarily say so.”

The heads of both warriors whipped around as a chipper voice intruded upon their conversation.

Temperance stood close to the door, emitting cool sincerity and good morale, but also comfort and tranquillity in a radius of roughly two miles. It was a wonder they hadn't felt her arrive sooner. Wrath smiled as she saw her sister; Michael, though, couldn’t prevent her jaw from setting and was hard-pressed to tell why. Lady Temperance was safely middling in all respects; it was hard to find anything about her which could upset an angel, or anyone for that matter. It seemed her presence alone negated anything to be upset about, or even anything to be overjoyed about; it suggested that anything could be accepted, worked with, that every dispute could be settled, every wound mended, that with enough patience and thought and discussion, a solution to every problem could be found.

The notion calmed Michael down, but was simultaneously like needles beneath her skin.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, dear sister, dear Michael. Wisdom mentioned you might be here, and that you just might need someone to check on you—see that you leave our décor, and each other in one piece—so I decided I might not be amiss to visit and say hello. So, hello!” No-one answered her. Michael scrambled to find anything to detest about her and pointedly couldn’t, “I also didn’t want to interrupt you, so, if you’re talking about something private, just say the word, tell me you’re fine and settled down and I’ll be on my way.”

 _Shut up_ , Michael thought and clenched her fist, _Shut up and leave, I don’t need you here_. The words swirled round and round her head but she knew better than to express them.

“Oh you're not interrupting, not at all,” Wrath waved her sister closer, to which Temperance complied, her gait as graceful as that of a wraith. “You were just saying, when you came in?”

Temperance elegantly lowered herself onto the floor, order and propriety incarnate, not a fold of her sharp pantsuit out of place; and cast a look at Michael so calm and collected and inviting it made her want to scream and take a deep, nurturing breath at the same time.

“Now, Michael, saying you’re nothing because of your old world collapsing.” She shook her head, almost as if she were scolding the Archangel. “That’s out of proportion, don’t you think? Not with this outlook, this openness for your future. You’re still here. You’re still going strong. You're whole, perhaps a bit chipped, but healing! You can build a new world for yourself. And…” Temperance grinned and waggled her feet, “And I think I just might know someone to whom you’re much more than _nothing_.”

Michael groaned and rolled her eyes, tugging at her overgrown hair.

“Oh for- Not you too!” she snapped, “I get more than enough of that from that Eros character. She just _cannot_ shut up about it. And then there’s Crowley and Aziraphale, and Beelzebub and Gabriel all getting along, without a fucking care in the world, like everything is just blue skies and fluffy clouds and rainbows now—not to mention those bloody Dukes, but that’s a lost cause either way—even _Uriel_ is making up with Belphegor. It’s like there never was a Fall… or a War… It's... It's like even _the Almighty_ never existed.”

All of a sudden, the smile melted off Temperance’s face; she looked downright solemn, her earlier cheerfulness already a distant memory. Her hands were folded in her lap; slender, bloody-knuckled, loose-skinned, and slightly singed. They must have held Wrath back countless times, they and her eyes and voice, but they still looked slight and tender.

“Maybe it would be best to just let bygones be bygones, Michael,” she ventured, sounding—if still light—pensive and sincere, “Yes, I understand you felt betrayed. Yes, I understand that loyalty is paramount to you, and it had to be, for many, many years. But things have changed, and I honestly feel you, as well as Dagon, have suffered enough.”

_Suffered enough._

_Bygones being bygones._

Michael averted her gaze, rested her fists on her ankles and concentrated on her breathing.

“Have you ever heard her side of things?” Temperance prodded.

Michael felt a dark cloud of rage ball inside her, just beneath her sternum, but it didn’t travel any further and it wouldn’t let itself be made known. Damn that unifying, smoothing-out temperate influence.

“What would that achieve?” she grumbled. “Dagon rebelled. She tried, with her whole assembly of deserters, to demolish everything I and my siblings have ever achieved. She renounced the angel I loved in order to become a monster. She rejected _everything_ I embodied then, and still do now. There is not much of a ‘side’ to see in this—not one, at least, which would make me any softer to her. She made her decision and left me no choice but to deliver the consequences.”

“Ah, consequences.” Temperance smiled again, a lily-smelling haze of good spirits issuing from her. “That is a wonderful concept to invoke, don’t you think? Would you profess that everything that happens has its consequences?”

“Well… yes, of course, that’s exactly what I’m trying to say,” Michael answered, stupefied.

Temperance raised a brow though her face was still cheerful, “Then how do you justify your wilful ignorance of Dagon’s last actions and the consequences that then arose from _that_. Specifically, her coming to your aid as you faced what remained of Lucifer?”

* * *

1That is, after the Primordials were able to comprehend the idea of a phone and then begin the arduous process of handling the tricky little things. Unsurprisingly, Wisdom took to it rather easily, whereas Wrath and Justice went through an entire box of the metal rectangles together before they realised that phones don't work well in extreme conditions. Even if they are labelled as water-proof and the screen is toted as crack-resistant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, M4R4N14MH popping in for a moment. This wonderful little fic is indeed part of the series connected to 'The Time Before' and I hope you guys enjoy Varjo's little romp in my Universe as much as I am :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the monster chapter. I seem to have a knack for writing unhandy word-counts, making it hard to break chapters up.  
> I hope you will enjoy regardless of this!  
> Thank you for reading!

Eros had the vague feeling she was being watched—a feeling akin to that of a palm-sized, fairly hairy arachnid sitting sedately on the back of one's neck—occasionally shifting or itching for a moment or two. Not exactly malevolent, but still irritating. Prickly. She had, now and again, glanced about herself, taking in the calm and still quite empty expanse of the Sanctuary, that vague feeling never abating for a moment. But she had yet to discern anything that her senses could possibly construe as disconcerting. Whoever trailed her seemed to know precisely what they were doing.

This was why she was not as surprised as perhaps she should have been when the Archangel Michael let herself be found (suavely, understatedly, seemingly by pure accident) as Eros walked away from Aziraphale and Crowley’s space in the Sanctuary. She was in rather high spirits, actually, riding the high of an idea fruitfully realised. It had been an idea she had sat upon for quite some time, waiting for the two celestials to grow plenty accustomed to their little temporary niche before introducing her attention—as well as affection—starved little Sister Hope. The pair seemed to be such a perfect fit for her—though Crowley, of course, was rather less amused by the prospect of having to tolerate a slighty hyper-active and occasionally irritatingly juvenile Hope in his garden, not to mention that the intruder was also occupying some of his beloved angel's attention, but Eros was convinced he would quickly warm up to her youngest and most energetic sister. He was such a positive, congenial person, after all, underneath all the snide pessimism and half-arsed insults.

But now, as she'd rounded a fairly innocuous corner, she found that high crashing rather spectacularly.

Michael stood, arms crossed, tension and apprehension colouring her aura in stormcloud colours along with the pall of a vague but ill mood, bridled though it may be. Laboriously bridled, too. Approaching the Archangel with her mood like that reminded Eros eerily of coming near an unbroken and wildly feral horse in an all too cramped space, armed with nothing but one’s voice and maybe a halter and rope to keep it at bay. Even though the Primordial was well aware the odds were ridiculously imbalanced in her own favour, she sincerely tried to present herself as an equal or, more ideally, a companion; she didn’t want to face Michael’s scorn, mostly because some grave, distressing feeling told her she deserved it.

Michael approached her with a steady gait and an unmoving expression. She bowed slightly in greeting; her voice eerily flat as she said, “A moment of your time, if I may be so bold, Lady Eros.”

Eros forced a smile and gestured for the angel to walk with her. For a moment she wondered if Michael's begrudging wariness of her would ever really fade or if this uncomfortable stillness would remain forevermore. Pushing such unhelpful thoughts aside, she broke the silence, “Hello, Michael. Its good to see you… up and about. And that we’re talking to each other after…” She grappled for some suitable words, found none, and waved it away. The guilt still nagging at her, “Never mind. You know you needn’t address me by any honorific—”

“Yes, yes, certainly.” Michael said, her tone clearly disgruntled as well as in a hurry to get to the point—but still, she walked with Eros. Her hands were clenched behind her back and she seemed to be purposefully emitting a stale, cold air, but she walked with her.

After another moment of tense quiet, the Archangel broke the silence again, “Listen, if you will, I have a… request to make. To apply for something, so to speak.”

The Primordial managed to fight back against a chuckle though a tiny smirk did manage to curve her lips. Still very much the Heavenly functionary, as ever. Though the situation's slight levity didn't blind her to the fact that Michael kept looking around, checking their environment with each step as if she expected a trick, an attack, or an ambush, but had no look to spare for her interlocutor; however, she chose to neglect the observation for the time being.

“Of course,” She said, as gently as possible. Happily, Michael didn’t frown, “What is it that you desire?”

“You… I was told you were able to shape this area mostly at will.”

There was something in her voice, something taut like a tortured piano string. Eros could discern but not quite name or describe it. Uncertainty? A tremor of anxiety? A sense of doubt?

However, she nodded, deciding to concentrate on Michael’s words, not the feel of her aura or the impressions she emitted, “Mostly, yes. It is not as cut and dry as you seem to think it is, and we have to be mindful of everything out and around there, but—”

That seemed to be enough for the Archangel. She stared straight ahead as she interrupted, “I will have need of a place.”

The Primordial blinked. That was... an unusual request.

“A place?”

Gesturing with one hand—a hand she had _finally_ freed of the tight stranglehold behind her back—the pale angel elaborated, “A place to talk to… to someone.”

Eros squinted at her with one eye, suspiciously. She thought she had an idea where this was going, but decided to let Michael talk before jumping to any conclusions.

Clearing her throat as if she were saying something embarrassing or wildly inappropriate, Michael muttered, “In private.”

Now she just had to ask. This was too good to pass up, “Is this about…?”

The Archangel said nothing, but the way she clenched her teeth behind her thin, ever-paling lips; the way she hung her head; hunched her shoulders—effectively curling up into herself—and swiftly returned her poor hand to the aforementioned stranglehold spoke volumes.

Eros herself was flooded with bliss. So indeed there was hope! So some more unnecessary suffering would end!

The Primordial made an overjoyed inner note to find out whoever was responsible for this drastic change of the General’s mind and smooch them square between the eyes. Maybe bless them with a thousand years of good fortune1. She couldn’t stop her voice from hopping up at least half an octave as she said, “I believe I do understand, de— ah, Michael. There are no words to tell you how delighted I am that you—”

Michael was having none of it.

“This is degrading enough as it is,” She grumbled, ever vigilant, looking everywhere save her interlocutor’s face, “So, would you… kindly… let it go, and just answer my request?"

Fine. Sure, Eros could work with that. And if Michael insisted, she could have business-like Eros too, if that made things easier for her ( _Oh the chance! Oh the prospect! Eros could feel herself grow stronger even considering the **possibilities**_ ). Consciously tamping down on that glowing, giddy enthusiasm, she cleared her throat and straightened up a little, “I will do my best to get you what you require, Archangel Michael. I think a nice little office should do, with a solid door to close behind you.”

“No,” Michael shook her head, almost morosely, though now a little energy creeped into her voice and bearing ( _This is important to her. Oh, it is so important to her! She wants —no—she **needs** this to be perfect! However should Eros stop herself from touching Michael now? From hugging her, whirling her around in a flurry of joy and anticipation?_) “Make it a body of water. A pond, a lake, a pool, a stream, whichever. Not too ostentatious if you please. And remove it as far from everybody else as you can. That will be essential.”

A few moments of silence passed—a few moments in which Eros thought mindless glee might strangle her self-control—and most of the intensity in Michael ebbed away except for the core trace of it that seemed integral to her.

“I know you will have to discuss this with your siblings. I understand. Bring it up with them, and tell me once you know anything definite. I will be awaiting your answer.”

With that, the Archangel picked up her pace and walked away in long, hurried strides. Leaving behind an Eros who finally allowed herself to smile like she'd either lost her ages-old mind or the sun had finally shifted out from a miles-thick shroud of clouds.

***

In comparison to most of the other warriors involved in the battle at the base of Babel, Dagon’s injuries were relatively minor, which was why she'd spent a comparatively short time in recovery. Later, she had taken to watching over Beelzebub for a few days as they practiced basic fighting forms with them in their new corporation2 and after that—in lieu of anything else to do— they began to unwillingly reminisce.

She could, of course, have visited the room in which Michael rested to slow down that encroaching self-reflection, but she dared not. Even as bored as she was, she had no desire to face that anger aagin.

“Try to hearten yourself,” Eros had advised when she had visited during a period of such dreadful reflection, reading the grief on Dagon’s fish-scale dotted face like an open book, “Michael can sense fear, and it makes her lordly and watchful, too. Where there’s fear, she expects combat. You won’t want to fight with her, Dagon… not anymore.”

Had she ever really wanted to fight her? Dagon didn’t think so. To _watch_ her fight? Yes, because her skills were beyond admirable—with her, warfare almost seemed like art; like dancing with ribbons of blood; the violence almost an artform in and of itself. But actually _fight_ her?

She'd probably stand a better chance against a tidal wave of holy water.

Eros had smiled as Dagon had pondered this, her expression almost motherly in its tenderness, “Do you remember the time you first met? How you established contact then?”

Yes. Yes, she remembered, and revisiting this memory had been… well, it had been quite something. It had dragged itself out of her like a great lumbering creature, intent on escape with no regard for the careful walls she had established throughout the centuries. Spilling itself into the view of an Eros whose smile was just perhaps slightly knowing. As if she had been waiting for those walls to crumble.

“We must have been no more than children… eh figuratively speaking, of course, none of us was ever… but you know that, so, whatever. We were… I was not in her Choir, but we happened to share a break room, and I remember staring at her every time she walked in because she was just… she was perfection in motion to me. I remember everyone gossiping about her legendary bad moods. I remember… I remember sometimes following her around a bit, just to see whether there was a place I could talk to her alone, but, no. She was hardly ever alone. Except for when she sat next to the pool during her time off and dozed or meditated."

Eros had nodded, interjecting in the natural pause with a soft smile and a hummed, "I do recall she enjoyed the water's edge."

But then the beast had reared, eager to continue.

"I remember, once, when she was particularly pissed off, my Choirmates and I started chatting and someone said that when she was in these moods, nobody and nothing would be able to cheer her up. Not for a couple of years at least. I… have no fucking clue _why_ but I guess I saw it as some sort of challenge. And, after training, I went looking for the pool. It was… it was a sterile thing, kind of natural-looking but lifeless and still—all proper and nice like most things back then—but it was good enough for what I had planned. So... I jumped in and Shifted into a dolphin and waited until she came in. It took some time, but finally she arrived and sat down and massaged her face… then I swam closer and poked her in the knee with my nose."

At that point, the wide smile on Eros' face was far too pleased for it to be a coincidence, but she laughed anyway.

"She spooked at first I think, but then I grinned at her and laughed. I had planned a whole fucking _routine_. All twists and jumps and fancy flips. Beat my tail at some point. I think I sprayed her a little, made a rainbow above the lake with water drops, and she _laughed_. Really laughed, can you imagine? Like she _meant_ it. Like she was _happy_ , not like in that eerie way after a good fight, but really happy. By the time I came to the shore again, she was smiling, and I knew I… I had won a sun all of my own. She patted me for a moment then demanded I show my face, and thanked me when I did. She thanked me for cheering her up, and told me that no-one she knew treated her as freely and unpretentiously as this. No-one… joked with her, or around her."

The memory had then turned a tad bitter and Dagon had grimaced, her voice turning as sour as her expression, "Then of course Raphael had to butt his ugly head in…”

“Now, now, Dagon,” Eros had scolded her, “I wouldn’t say he was ugly in any capacity—”

“But I would,” Dagon had shot back, perhaps a tad petulantly, “I would say so, very fucking much. Not that I can talk, but still. Anyway, he came in and was all smiles and asked whether Michael had forgotten the meeting that day, and, of course, she rose and said goodbye and went away before I could even tell her my name. I was… I mean… _I think_ I was different back then. More… easy-going. Relaxed. I had a sense of humour, I think, and it wasn’t always just death and torture.”

Lucifer had done away with that, in the time after the Fall. Quite thoroughly, in fact.

Eros, understanding more than she probably cared to admit, hadn’t needed to physically hug her to make Dagon feel embraced.

“Maybe what worked once could work a second time,” She'd then suggested, her words kind and gentle.

If the unburdening of the story and the knowledge of how things had gone the first go around was meant to help and ease her fear, it hadn’t helped much. The next time she ran into Michael in a corridor— the angel looking almost regal in her off-white fencing gear, the jacket closed along her left side with perfectly round, golden buttons—Dagon still averted her eyes and made as if to skirt around the General with the air of a mouse around a starving cat.

Consequently, she was taken aback—downright shocked, in fact—when the Archangel herself reached out as if to stop her and said, in a strained and slightly wavery voice, “A word with you, Dagon, if you have the time.”

The world came screeching to a juddering halt. Every molecule suddenly slamming into its neighbour in a tumultuous tumble of confusion.

A word?

_All the words in the world if it pleases you…_

Dagon said nothing, but did manage to find the courage to lift her gaze from a non-descript ceiling panel to Michael’s face. It was haggard, pallid and expressionless; its every detail somehow radiating exhaustion and an aching near-hollowness.

“I... appreciate you supporting me in battle against Lucifer's... corpse,” The General finally began through a clearly uncooperative mouth, “That was… very daring of you, and I value bravery in a soldier.”

Dagon made to reply and found their throat had miraculously dried between breaths, so much so that speaking was a physical strain, “I err… Don’t mention it. I felt… I couldn’t just… You were injured.”

_Do not be afraid of her_ , Eros had said. Which didn't help all that much considering Dagon wasn't even sure what she was feeling facing the Archangel. Fear might well be part of that maelstrom currently waging war in her soul but it was rather significantly dwarfed by the more daunting feeling of complete and utter befuddlement.

_You have to break her out of the cycle_ , Eros had instructed.

But _how?_

Michael nodded slowly, “Be that as it may… Thank you for your bravery and courage. Thank you for… defending me.”

The last two words echoed in Dagon’s ears.

“My pleasure,” She heard herself say through the layers of her beloved’s voice still ringing in her head.

Then, silence. Silence was between them like a chest-high block of ice. A wall of ice. A fucking iceberg.

Dagon was the first to try to retreat —to break away from these highly uncomfortable feelings—however, Michael stopped her. Almost shouting, the noise simultaneously nervous, fretful, and frustrated, she said, “Do you often think of the olden days?”

The… olden days?

“You mean when we…” The demon began slowly, but Michael shook her head and made a motion as if asking Dagon to follow her. Which, after a _long_ moment's hesitation, Dagon finally did.

Walking with Michael was... was as if the walls and doors had eyes and ears. Beneath the confusing fog that her thoughts had become, Dagon wondered whether Michael even understood the meaning of the word trust or that of safety.

Still, she allowed herself to be led off by the General, keeping a respectful (and safe) distance. Staring between the Archangel's shoulder blades with the single-mindedness of a laser whilst Michael ceaselessly watched her surroundings, her vigil never ceasing for an instant as they moved further into the unknown reaches of the Sanctuary.

* * *

1No, Eros didn't know if she even had the power to do that or if _anyone_ really did. But did that matter? Oh most certainly not.

2Before being bustled away after only half an hour by a much restored and remarkably taciturn and understated Gabriel. One had to wonder whether his short stint in death had finally taught the pompous peacock some much-needed manners or if his suddenly restored memories had ushered in a bit of tact and understanding.


	3. Chapter 3

They left the odd mish-mash building that comprised the training centre and walked for a while until finally reaching the impressive garden Crowley insisted on tending to all by himself; a lush paradise of swaying, feathery grass, a multitude of blossoms of all shapes and sizes, and trees sighing under the weight of impossibly colourful fruit. In the distance—somewhere near the tiny, unassuming cottage where the garden had begun—the sound of laughter could be heard; as bright and as cheerful as a child's accompanied by the equally faint yells of an exasperated serpentine gardener.

Dagon could see the beauty of the place plainly, but it was an alien sort of beauty—she was far more partial to the wonders of the underwater landscape. To her mind, there was nothing more (figuratively) breath-taking than the dappled rays of sunlight beneath the waves, the sluggish water weaving the beams of light into a fantastical display, the darting fish and seaweed almost aglow in the aquamarine.

Well, maybe there was _one_ thing more beautiful than all that…

_Pull yourself together, Dagon._

On the very far end of the Sanctuary, where it faded out into oblivion, was a pond—an obscenely large pond—actually more akin to a middling lake really; clean and clear, smelling of mountains, muck, and the water lilies growing in clumps near the shore. The usual insects buzzing about it were missing, but apart from that, it was as close to a natural, earthly lake as a magical construct in another dimension could possibly get. Michael swiftly seated herself on the dry shore, her posture guarded, reticent, but Dagon took a minute or two to take the lake and the surrounding area in.

The fruit trees of before had given way to towering pines—many times either of their height—their dark mass keeping the lake hidden from almost every angle, and around the shore, interspersed amidst the dark green grass, little blue star-shaped flowers abounded, winking up at the sunless and yet still bright blue sky. Somewhere to the right the gentle roar of a waterfall could be heard, the only sound apart from the gentle lapping of the water at the shore.

The odd collection of buildings that comprised most of the Sanctuary were like toys in the distance.

After a moment's more observation—which Dagon managed to convince herself _wasn't_ because she was nervous—she finally sat herself on the shore by the General's unmoving side.  


“The olden days,” The demon repeated, feeling a little freer for the distance from the buildings and the other celestials, “Back when we… when there wasn’t an entire realm between us.”

“When we ran with each other because you were the only one who dared to approach me in my anger, and because your joking and light-heartedness made all of it easier.” Michael replied, her voice sombre and quiet.

“Before everything went dark,” Dagon sighed, digging her slightly-clawed fingers into the soft earthy-sand of the shore.

“Before you decided to make a run for it,” Michael grumbled.

Dagon stayed silent, the only sound the continuing _lap-lap_ of the lake's mini-waves.

Michael chose that moment to pluck a sprig of flowers out of the ground—slender little stems with longish leaves, bearing the tiniest, bright blue blossoms, with yellow rings in their centre; Dagon remembered they were called forget-me-nots—and started tearing out the petals of the nearest flower head. One by one. As soon as there was nothing but the yellow dot left, she moved to the next.

Five petals to a blossom.

_Pluck_ – _Pluck_ – _Pluck_ – _Pluck_ – _Pluck_.

Steady, almost lethargic movements.

Dagon stared at the Archangel's scarred hands, watched them slowly dismember blossom after blossom, and imagined Crowley coming along and witnessing this horror and then throwing a giant hissy fit because how dare Michael treat his precious plant life like this. And how impassive Michael would look, lifting her gaze up from her destructive work…

It was a hilarious image. Half and half, Dagon wished for it to come about, but then again, that would mean Crowley would be here, and that would mean they wouldn’t be alone anymore. Which would ruin the quiet. 

Michael turned the remaining blossoms about between two slender fingers, “Do you remember the day… the final day when you had me down on Earth, as the oceans had just been Created, and you were so… so unduly excited about them?”

“I wanted to see them up close—from inside—and I wanted you to share in what made me happy,” Dagon conceded quietly, cringing inwardly when the memory of just _how_ excited she'd been back then came rushing to the forefront of her thoughts.

Michael stared at a blossom, caressing it with a fingertip. “And I told you I couldn’t swim, and that I didn’t care to learn.”

“You told me,” Dagon replied, smirking, “That 'it was not needed', that 'water was nice to look at but nothing to be touched or dived into', and I was so adamant that it was great, and you just had to experience it for yourself to see, and that you'd enjoy exploring it with me.”

“I got annoyed with you, if I recall correctly, and said to imagine… anyone… the leader of your Choir—might it have been Raphael? Or was it Uriel? Or maybe Zadkiel? Ananiel? Was it Lucifer himself…?” Dagon shook her head as Michael stalled. It didn’t matter much now, “I said to imagine them in a bathing suit, and how ridiculous that would be.”

Dagon chuckled, “You told me to imagine _you_ in a bathing suit.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Michael's mouth but, through some Herculean effort on her part, it never blossomed fully into an actual _smile_. The flowers trembled in her grip, “You asked whether I actually intended to make you flustered. And you did so with a completely straight face. I laughed… I think mostly because I didn’t know what else to do.”

Dagon smirked again, “To shut me up.”

“Yes… quite possibly.”

A pause unfolded.

Michael started dismantling another blossom. _Pluck_.

“Then you just waded out, Shifting as you went, and stretched your hand back for me. And I, Almighty help me,” _Pluck_ , “I heartened myself and followed, took your hand, and let myself be led out. I… allowed you to take me into the water, and I followed you even as I lost my footing. I listened and tried to imitate you as you showed me swimming strokes, and since I was halfway competent and could keep myself afloat, you told me,” _Pluck_ , “You told me to hold onto your dorsal fin, then we went down and down and down. Past shoals and reefs, and, ah, the more bizarre animals, and finally those pitch-black crevices. And," _Pluck_ , "I remember I wanted to shriek but it all was so damn stunning and I…”

Michael paused, pressing a fist to her chest. Either something had caught in her throat, or (less likely) she was struggling with tears. Recovering enough to re-address the blossom, her pull was so powerful that the entire thing snapped off its stem; Michael looked at it sheepishly for a second or two before throwing it away, grabbing for the next unlucky head.

“I remember you holding onto me,” Dagon added helpfully, shuffling ever so slightly closer. Michael was so nervous she ripped away two petals at once from the damaged head, the green blood of the plant staining the tips of her fingers a minty colour. Dagon continued, “And pressing against my side. I remember how your panic slowly subsided and gave way to joy. I don’t have the words to express how happy that made me—being down there, in the realm I adored so much, with the angel I lo- _liked_ so much, clinging to me. Making the one who everyone was so wary of, laugh and smile. And do you remember as we stopped…”

Michael just stared at the blossoms in her hand, the one with the two missing petals as well as the few remaining complete ones. Her voice sounded dead, so fearfully hollow and empty, “When we stopped over that wide trench near the shore. With the sun glistening in the waves above our heads, the pods of dolphins and shoals of fish in the distance; the corals in the reef below us where the shells and snails, the crabs and lobsters, the little seahorses, the algae.. Where _everything_ was so vibrant and colourful. Then... do you remember the pistol shrimp?”

Dagon smiled, biting her lower lip as she struggled not to snort at the memory, “Distinctly. But I also remember you loved the rays best.”

Michael’s voice seemed to struggle to remain neutral as she replied, “It was like they were flying underwater. Their thin limbs, outstretched just like wings. On land they would have been so lumbering, so helpless, but underwater they were _graceful_. Just flying along over the seabed… and do you remember the black ray, covered in white spots? That was my favourite. It was…”

Dagon nodded, “… absolutely _huge_ and when it was passing by overhead I just wound around you and played with your hair for a laugh then you grabbed me and we... kissed.”

_We… kissed._

Michael closed her fist around the remaining stems and blossoms, the tiny bits of vegetation turning to sticky pulp between her tough fingers

Angel and demon sat in silence, both staring at their own knees, and though Dagon’s fingers twitched, she couldn’t bring herself to let them clamber towards Michael.

_We… kissed._

“Then, we returned and had no explanation for why we were soaking wet and smelled of salt. And every time I looked at you from then on, all I could see was that valley. Our little secret.” Michael was hoarse again; her voice shaking like it was close to breaking.

Dagon tried to steel her body into touching the Archangel. Just one small, consoling, invigorating pat on the shoulder. Maybe a caress up her back. But couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Have I ever told you,” She laboriously made herself say instead, just in order to make conversation, to break that unbearably tense silence, “That Raphael gave me a thumbs-up and the progenitor of all shit-eating grins behind your back when he walked you away to that meeting, back when we first met?”

Michael looked up and first appeared like a daydreamer roused far too early from her task; then a wistful smile briefly curved her lips.

“He would have done that, wouldn’t he,” She mumbled.

Dagon managed a smirk, “To think that skinny little red-headed shrimp is your brother by blood.” 

The side-look Michael gave was rather unimpressed, “I would prefer to not be reminded of that. If you don’t mind.”

Dagon didn’t.

The unbearable silence reinstated itself. The demon doubted whether she’d dare to re-break it.

“What changed?” Michael’s glance was icy now; demanding, almost threatening as she finally lifted it and looked her companion in the eye. Dagon suddenly—and unhelpfully—was reminded of the crushed forget-me-nots, the greenish pulp still running between the General's fingers. Michael continued, “Whatever was so bad Up there that not even I—who gave you more than I thought I had to give—nor even what we had between us could have made it worth staying? What was it that Lucifer offered that... That made you throw all of it away? I hope it was good, I sincerely do, because I don’t think I ever recovered from your treason. I trusted you, Dagon. I _relied_ on you. You made the aftermath of each outbreak more bearable. You were never timid, you never shot me an over-cautious look, you never treated me like an unpredictable monster. You welcomed me, and held me, and helped me endure the empty and ashen feel of a rage gone by just by making it all seem ridiculous."

Dagon swallowed, the motion less nervous and more... guilty.

Michael wasn't finished, "Do you know what you achieved, Dagon? What you made me do? Sometimes, when I felt anger swell up inside me, before it could overtake me, I stopped and took a step back and thought to myself, ‘ _Dagiel might laugh about this._ ’ Then I pondered it, I pictured you with that delightful, sardonic smile of yours, and sometimes it worked, and I could wind down and laugh at myself, at my anger. For a time my Choir was convinced I was not myself; that I had… never mind. And then you had the… the _audacity_ to take that away from me.”

Dagon huffed, biting her lip. What did she really have to say in the face of this, either way? She felt stupid and childish and mortified as she ventured a tentative answer, “I… I didn’t. Throw anything away, that is, not by volition. I never knew… Lucifer didn’t exactly tell us about his ultimate plans, but I guess he never achieved them, anyway. I just... Michael, I just wanted to be _free_.”

_Free._ The thought had never crossed Dagon’s mind before, not consciously, and yet, as it passed across her tongue now, it didn’t feel like a fabrication.

“Free,” Michael repeated, one pale eyebrow raised in either confusion or consternation.

“Not free from you, if that's what you're thinking.” Dagon hurriedly amended, “Never that. Just from… from leadership, and from orders, and from… having to bow and accept directions with no input of my own. From… not being able to make up my own mind on what to do.” The demon shrugged weakly. “I will apologise for… for all the pain I have caused you. I’ve been stupid, and I didn’t mean any of it, but… It was kind of inevitable. I've always had a problem with authority.”

Then, something amazing happened. A smile—forced and grim though it may be—crept across the Archangel’s face.

“That, you did,” She agreed, combing through her overgrown hair with numb fingers, “And to think I found it endearing.”

Dagon swallowed again, this time definitely because of nerves. Was that the sound of a cycle breaking?

Hadn’t they reached her goal now? Freedom. No Almighty for Michael to follow anymore. No Lucifer to keep Dagon under his thumb. No-one to instate their stupid rules over them…

She started to shift sideways and back, her legs Shifting together seamlessly into the sleek and powerfully muscular shape of a tiger shark's tail. There was a way out, she saw it now. A way as beautiful as that oceanic valley from all those centuries before.

“To think you ever stopped,” She grinned and, as Michael whipped her head around to face her, she was already half in the pond; her tail splashing idly about in the waves. The shore was steep and sheer, but not vertical, and the water had almost completely swallowed Dagon from the hips down.

“What are you implying?” The Archangel asked, sounding gruff, if still lordly.

“I _imply_ that you being drawn to me and to my jokes before, and you returning now, shows that under all this fabulous, untouchable General-façade, there is a Michael who just wants to be free as well. A Michael who wants to unfold, unwind, and _play_.” Dagon’s eyes shimmered, an unspoken invitation. “Play at fighting. Play at running away. Play at swimming. Play at marine biologist. And I want to play along with her. Come with me and let her out.”

Michael didn't react to this, not with a single twitch of her muscles, so the Lord of the Files knew she had to heighten the stakes. How was it that she felt so light-headed all of a sudden? So breezy and elated? So untouchable when, just moments before, she'd been all too aware of her comparitive fragility next to this much more powerful being.

"You want your dolphin back," She teased, letting her tail wave lazily from side to side, "You've demonstrated as much, Michael. I'm here. Within arm's reach. And you, you are Heaven's General. Are you still going to let someone else tell you what to do and what not to do? What you can and cannot have?"

That worked. But then, tugging at Michael's professional honour and standing had _always_ worked.

Dagon felt bad for using that cheat on her—but only a little bit. And besides, she was still a demon, this kind of playful manipulation was fully within her job description.

Michael, throwing the sad remains of what had once been a bunch of forget-me-nots carelessly into the grass, pushed herself around on her knees, leaning down above Dagon, who looked up at her, finally unafraid.

“You will stop this insurrection this very instant,” The Archangel breathed, her warm exhalations hitting Dagon’s cool, scaly cheeks, and the demon smirked. The General's voice contained minute traces of anger—as it always had and probably always will—but it didn't deter the Lord of the Files anymore. Michael would just have to overcome her own reluctance now. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

Gently, Dagon extended a webbed and silvery hand from beneath the placid surface of the lake, placing it on the back of Michael’s neck, just a mere suggestion, no pressure at all.

“Make me,” She murmured, pushing herself backwards, away from the shore, and letting herself sink below the water completely.

Michael allowed herself to be pulled along, stretching her arms to wind them around Dagon’s waist as the water enveloped her too, closing her eyes on instinct. After a few moments, she opened them and there was Dagon’s face, familiar and lovely and grinning. Beautifully and wonderfully eerie in the minty-aquamarine tint of the lake, her light top floating dream-like around her chest, hugging the base of that powerful, striped tail tightly.

Blinking, Michael adjusted to the submarine environment—pushing against the flood of nostlagia that threatened to make her utterly useless—before she pulled herself together and _swam_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Varjo, thanking you sincerely for giving this a read. I hope it has been to your liking!  
> Have a nice day!


End file.
